{Darkness wears a thousand faces,
Secrets whisper in moonless spaces.}
Sophia's POV
I slip my veil off my head and place it on the table. A maid rushes forward to take it. I know Khalid notices, but his lack of interest confirms one thing: he isn't here to undress me with his eyes. Attraction? Romance? No. That's not on the menu.
" You have a month. Do you think you can make a yard by then?" He asks as he undoes his bow tie, loosens two buttons of his shirt. My eyes remain on his face, refusing to wander lower. Discipline, Sophia. No ogling.
Leila, standing to the side, makes a silly face. My eyes narrow slightly. What does she think this is? Nollywood?
"We'll have to wait and see how well I can do," I say flatly.
The muscle in his jaw tightens. He is unsatisfied with my answer.
"I'm not sure I can hold my family off for a month," he says, "but I'll try. And I expect you to do the same with your lessons."
My breath catches. His family. Of course. How did I forget? Family introductions. Help me God! I am not ready. I don't think I'll ever be ready. The dreaded gatherings where in-laws measure the new wife like yam at the market. My stomach twists. This is a next level big deal for me. And I hate to know I can't keep putting it off, not if I want this arrangement to work.
I school my face. "You should tell me beforehand if I should be careful around them." His family don't seem to like me very much. I can tell. Maybe because I sort of appear out of the blue. I just hope they are not one of those who put pressure on the wife of their son. The troublesome type who want the wife to follow their laid down protocol without any opposition. Oh dear, I can already visualize problems steaming. I don't do very well with rules. I can't quite recall when last I have to follow orders.
"You should," Khalid replies, his tone clipped, deliberate. His words land like stones on marble. "My family may have accepted our marriage, but that doesn't mean they're pleased. Originally, they wanted me to marry someone else. Mother especially… she is only just getting used to the idea of you. She expects things. My family wants a daughter in-law who fits into a certain mold. And I don't think you're moldable."
His words strike, but I bite back a laugh. Moldable? As if I'm dough in their hands.
Right. Acceptance doesn't equal approval.
"Is that why you chose me?" I ask, my voice sharper than intended. "Because I'm not moldable?"
"Maybe." His answer hangs in the air like smoke. Ambiguous, deliberate.
"But how are you so sure?"
His gaze softens slightly, his lips twitch as though weighing words best left unsaid. Silence stretches between us. A silence that feels heavier than speech.
I sigh, breaking it. "Why didn't you marry her? The golden bride they picked? The one polished to perfection, the one who bends when asked to? Or was her shine too blinding, even for you?"
Leila lips curled in a mocking grin.
"Because I don't want to," Khalid says. His voice is flat, but his eyes sharpen. "I don't want them to decide for me. And Sophia, I don't want what I don't want."
I study him. He's using me to escape an arrangement, I know it. But why am I not convinced that's all? His explanation feels too neat, too polished. Lagos men always have layers, like onions, peel one and tears follow.
"So let me get this straight," I say slowly, "your family doesn't approve of me."
"Yes."
"Who especially should I look out for?"
"My mother," he says, his voice clipped again. Then, after a pause: "And all of them."
Something in the way he singles her out makes me shift in my seat. The warning in his tone is unmistakable. "When the mother lion roars, even the cubs scatter."
"She is going to stress you out a lot. Just be prepared."
Prepared? That sounds like a battle call. I've heard enough stories about mothers-in-law to write a thesis. They smile in public, pour venom in private. Protecting their son, they say. Controlling him, I call it.
I will not freak out.
His next words come like a blow. "What about your family, Sophia?"
I stiffen.
"No family came to the wedding. Why? I understand if your parents are against this. But no one at all? Only a friend?"
I grip my teacup. "I don't have parents."
Silence. Then softly: "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"They are alive," I snap. My voice is ice. It takes every ounce of control not to slam the cup down. "They're not dead."
He frowns. "You don't have parents, but they're alive? Were you disowned?"
The word claws at me. I almost rise from my seat. "Khalid—this is a sensitive topic, but, I'll answer you this time." My voice rises, sharp with old wounds. " I don't have parents… not in the way you mean. They're alive, yes, but for me it is as if they are not. Their absence is louder than their presence. And please, don't probe further, some doors are locked for a reason."
And disowned? That would have been better.
Breathing heavily, I force myself to calm. My chest burns.
"I won't ask again," he says, his tone softening. And strangely, I believe him. Well at least he seem to get the message.
"You don't have siblings?"
"I do. A younger sister, and a brother. They don't know about this marriage."
"You don't plan on telling them?"
"No."
My answer is final. His silence respects it.
I lean back, searching for air. "Before family introductions, maybe we should introduce ourselves properly." I force a small laugh. "I know you're Khalid Komolafe. And I'm Sophia Durotola. Well… Sophia Komolafe now."
The name feels heavy on my tongue. I try to stifle a yawn but fail. He notices. Of course, he notices everything.
"I'm tired," I admit. "Can we talk later? I need to get out of this gown before it strangles me."
He motions to one of the staff. "Please take her upstairs."
"This way, ma'am," the woman says.
'Ma'am? Really? This woman looks old enough to be my mother.' The formality grates. But I rise, following her up the sweeping staircase.
Truth? I've been dying to see what lies beyond these swan-neck stairs. The grandeur of the house is almost oppressive. My fingers trail along the polished banister as I climb.
The woman leads me to a large door at the end of the corridor and pushes it open.
My breath catches.
An apartment could not be bigger. Black and white walls exude calm sophistication. The twin beds are made with white sheets and plush pillows, inviting me to sink in their comfort. So we're sharing a room, like a real couple. Not what I thought. A painting sits boldly between the beds, as if declaring a boundary. Flowers bloom near the window-wall, which opens to the night.
I am impressed with the room decor. Against my will.
"Ma, should I help you with the zipper?" the woman asks.
I frown. 'This woman again.'
"Please, call me Sophia," I say firmly.
"I can't, ma. You are my boss's wife. I must respect you."
"I insist. It makes me uncomfortable. My name is Sophia."
She nods reluctantly, then helps with the zipper.
"What should I call you?" I ask.
"Rofia."
"No. Not like that. I can't just throw your name at you."
"Bello," she says finally.
"Mrs. Bello," I repeat. She nods.
"What would you like for dinner?" she asks as I change into the bathrobe she offers.
"I'll skip dinner. Too tired. Just water by my bed."
"As you wish."
She guides me to the shower. When I return, the room is empty. My eyes land on a folded set of pajamas on the right bed, with a jug of water placed neatly.
Curious, I wander to a cream door. It opens to reveal—
A walk-in wardrobe.
Rows of clothes. Designer brands, my styles, my sizes. More than enough to last a year without repeats, and I wonder how my dresses will fit in when my belongings arrive.
"When did he prepare this?" I whisper. The thought of Khalid quietly curating all these unsettles me. Too much effort for a show. Or… maybe not.
I leave after looking around a little bit more, sliding into the pajamas. The fabric is soft, comforting. I collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes lost in the soft glow of the dim lights.
Wedding night.
The words float through my mind like a joke.
It doesn't feel special. It doesn't feel exciting. It feels… empty.
And even if it were special, I would ruin it anyway. Because tonight, my body bleeds red. A thick, unrelenting pool.
I close my eyes, choosing not to think. Enough thoughts for one day.